I remember the child from whose tears I was born. It was a Wednesday, just after three in the morning. The baby's name was Samantha and she had been born to a single teenage mother. Not all such mothers would have done what she did, but I'm not here to judge. After all I wouldn't exist if she hadn't. Dear, sweet Samantha had colic.

You see that's the thing; babies cry. They cry all the time, but they smile and laugh too. It's because they're creatures of primal needs, I think. If they are fed and warm and their diapers changed they are content. It isn't until later that they learn what joy or sorrow really is. Most often, as little Samantha came to see that night, tears come before laughter.

The pair had been up for hours, the child wailed pitifully, weeping tears of discomfort, and not true sadness. Her mother was frustrated; she had a big test in the morning and her parents, intent on teaching their wayward daughter a lesson, refused to help her with little Samantha in any way, unless absolutely necessary.

"Just shut up!" the weary and inexperienced mother had shouted, giving her daughter's thigh a pinch. She regretted the act almost immediately afterwards, cradled her, rocked her, and cried, begging the infant's forgiveness. None of this was any of my concern however, because after the first tenuous shrieks and tears I was fresh, and new, and ready to go to work.

But that was then, and this is now.

The sun had just set, leaving a greenish-blue light in the western sky while eastward the heavens opened up to a plethora of stars. The pale light these celestial bodies offered on this moonless eve washed over the sleeping landscape, filling it with just enough glow to work by. In my opinion, it's the best part of day. The Hollow, a half-rotted log that rested along the north riverbank, had begun to stir with life as the other Nyxies began to wake.

One of the few who enjoyed the twilight hours, I had been up well before them. The low wispy sound of wings sliding through the air was cut periodically by the low murmurs of dozens of voices as my fellows chattered briefly among themselves. After a few brief moments the mouth of the log was witness to our nightly exodus, Nyxies flitting off to their various tasks, thankless though our jobs may be.

Mucor and Conidia, a brother and sister duo of Fungi Gifted were among the first to take wing. Neighbors of mine, pranksters and hooligans both, they were eager to spread their spores and watch as they grew on fallen fruit and leaf litter.

One of their numerous duties was to help mushrooms take root, blooming in many unique and twisted shapes; each a sculpture made with loving care by the twin's hands. Despite their devil-may-care attitude towards life, they were very well respected as the mushrooms and other fungi they grew made up a large part of our diets.

I ruefully admit that I lingered. Slide, a tall Decomposition Gifted Nyxie had been on my mind a lot as of late. He had an ashen gray complexion, long, gleaming black hair, and holly red eyes. I had worked with him, well, near him, last spring when a young deer had nibbled one too many of my hemlock sprigs and died. It fascinated me to watch him work, not just the deterioration of something that was alive not long ago, but the way in which he went about it.

Slide spoke to the deceased creature, even after it had become putrid; beetles absconded with bits of it here and there, while worms inhabited it eye sockets; flies and their larval offspring making the most use of the fawn.

When I finally dared ask why he was doing it, what he said struck me full in the chest in a way that stayed.

Gently, Slide informed me that is was his firmly-held belief that the animal's essence lingered until Nature reclaimed it's body in full. As a baby animal he reasoned that it was likely afraid and confused,so therefore he consoled it, as he felt it was his responsibility to do.

It was sweet and charming, and something that had warmed me through entirely. As a result I had become infatuated with him, though I only dared admire him from afar.

I was plain as far as looks went; a thing which didn't do much to bolster my courage. My skin is the dull blue of a moon-laced thunderhead, and my hair, cropped short save for a lock I kept long and braided behind my right ear, is only just darker than that. My eyes, which I believe to be my most attractive feature, are black and gleaming, perfect for capturing stray beams of light.

When Slide finally came into view, all resplendent and strong, my heart gave a thrill, only to sink quickly afterwards. Of course he would be with her. Vira was a Pestilence Gifted who spread illness and disease with a wave of her elegantly maintained hand. Her skin was moonlight white and hair a flowing, luminous green. I could have almost hated her for it. She was beautiful, and sang with a perfection I could never attain. Even as I watched from my knot in the wood Vira was hanging off Slide like her life depended on in. Upon further reflection as I watched them flying away together, I decided then and there that I did indeed hate her.

Rot, an unceremoniously-named Compost Gifted came up to me then. Somehow always cued in to my hiding places he looped an arm about my shoulders. He was much taller than I was, dwarfing me and bending my wings slightly, but not in a way that was uncomfortable. His skin the bold color of pine wood, and eyes the shade of amber he smiled down at me.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" he rumbled, his voice like gravel as it reverberated through our point of contact. He was as close to a father figure as someone who had never been born could have, though I believe to him I was something more; something for which I felt guilt that I could not reciprocate his feelings.

Sighing, I was tempted to rake him with my claws, and made playful show of displaying them. Rot's laugh was hearty, a meaty, calloused hand roughing through my hair. Thinking better of my temper, I took flight grumbling instead of engaging him.